


Missed Opportunities

by midnightfreeway



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Mornings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Silence, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22406083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightfreeway/pseuds/midnightfreeway
Summary: In the aftermath of the apocalypse that wasn’t, Aziraphale thinks about time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Missed Opportunities

Afterwards, there is an overwhelming silence. The South Downs is a place where time stands still: open grasslands and rolling hillsides as far as the eye can see, dotted with clusters of trees. The vast emptiness swallows what little sound there is; the wind carries away their voices. Sometimes they sit by the fireplace at night and listen to the rain pattering on the roof, surprised by the noise. There has been terror and turmoil and fire, the low rumble of the apocalypse that never happened. Now, there is nothing, and it’s a relief. 

Silence. It rings in Aziraphale’s ears as he sets the steaming mug on the small, round table in front of the window. He’s got into the habit of drinking hot cocoa in the mornings, something he rarely did in London. The sweet, warm scent brings back memories, memories of evenings spent in the back room of the bookshop, his nose buried between pages. It’s the scent of home and happiness.

Crowley is already outside, dressed in a simple black T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. He saunters around the garden, leaning over flowers and touching leaves, pulling out weeds. Aziraphale watches him, hands cupped around the still-warm mug. Sometimes he feels like he’s brimming with light and affection, overflowing with emotion. It always happened when Crowley was around, and Aziraphale never questioned it; he’s an angel, after all, and angels radiate love for everyone, especially for someone like Crowley. Now, he knows it’s more than that.

Crowley is crouching beside the peonies now, elbows resting on his knees. He’s talking, but Aziraphale can’t hear what he’s saying; he can only see his mouth moving, thin lips forming words and sentences. Aziraphale looks at him, really looks at him, and thinks about how everything he has ever done in his life has led him to this exact moment, this exact point in time.

He has been thinking about time a lot lately, past and future. He takes long walks on the hills, following marked footpaths and narrow tracks, and loses himself in thought. The thing is, Aziraphale can remember every moment of his life if he’s willing to make the effort. He can recall things, even the smallest details, with perfect clarity, and sometimes he does, reminiscing about warm summer nights in Corinth, the tall shelves of the magnificent monastery library just outside of Naples, the delicious meal in Le Marais on a crisp, clear October afternoon, 1824. But six thousand years is a long time, and his mind is an endless pit: memories upon memories upon memories, some well-loved and special, others almost forgotten, barely worth remembering. How does one sift through the dirt to find the treasures? 

It was quite a wake-up call for the two of them, the whole end-of-the-world thing. It reminded them of something they had almost forgotten: nothing lasts forever, nobody lives forever — not even them.

Aziraphale never worried about running out of time before. There was always another year, another decade, another century. Now, they swirl around in his head, all the missed opportunities, alternate realities. What if, what if, what if—

Ever since they moved here, they’ve been taking turns reaching out to one another, seeking connection and comfort. There are soft touches, lingering looks, occasional kisses. They share a bedroom and a bed, Aziraphale curled up under the covers with a beloved book, Crowley’s chest rising and falling in his sleep. They cook together in the compact kitchen, Aziraphale peeling potatoes and carrots at the sink, Crowley bringing in fresh herbs from the garden. It all feels as natural as breathing, easy and uncomplicated.

—

It’s still early in the morning, the grey light of dawn filtering through the window. Aziraphale sits on his side of the bed, pillows propped up behind him, a book open on his lap. Crowley is a dark, unmoving lump on the other side of the bed. He jerks in his sleep, almost violently, and rolls over, sheets rustling. His face comes dangerously close to Aziraphale’s pyjama-clad thigh, and his hand bumps against his knee, knuckles digging into the fabric. Aziraphale doesn’t mind. He puts away the book and shifts to make room for Crowley, lowering himself onto one elbow, looking down at him.

Aziraphale studies Crowley’s face, taking in the details: the straightness of his nose, the curve of a cheekbone, the two-day-old stubble. He reaches out a tentative hand and touches it, the hairs rough and sharp against his fingers. A memory pops into his head: Crowley, asleep on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop after a night of food and wine and long conversations, legs draped over the arm. Aziraphale had leaned over him and slipped off his sunglasses, heart pounding, hands brushing against stubble-rough cheeks. He had felt like he had been on the verge of something big, an epiphany waiting to be discovered, but the moment had passed, leaving behind a vague feeling of regret. Later, at the breakfast table, Crowley had stared at him for what had felt like a very long time, brow furrowed and lips pursed, as if trying to remember. 

Now, there is a rush of guilt, a tinge of sadness. How could he have forgotten something so important, something so precious?

Crowley’s eyes flutter open, half-lidded and unfocused. Aziraphale hesitates, but Crowley doesn’t look annoyed, just tired. He lets Aziraphale run his hand along his jaw, blinking slowly. Aziraphale does it again and again, and the warmth in his chest grows and grows, spreading all the way to his fingertips, his toes. For once, he’s not lost in the sea of memories. It’s an ode to humanity, this moment, the only truth and reality, and the joy of simply being alive, the gift of being able to feel such strong emotions. Aziraphale heaves a gentle sigh. Everyday blessings, too often forgotten. 

“My dear boy,” he says, voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “What would I do without you?”

They get up, opening curtains, pulling clothes from the wardrobe. The sun is up now, filling the cottage with golden light. Crowley walks out into the garden, sunglasses perched on his nose, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Aziraphale sets the table for two and sits down with a mug of hot cocoa. The flowers bloom and the brilliant green grass is damp with dew. There’s a bird singing somewhere, a beautiful, delicate melody. Aziraphale feels calm, content, at peace with the world. He takes a long sip and thinks, _yes, I am right here, right now._


End file.
